


John Watson and the Door to Next Week

by ASongofSixpence



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Humor, M/M, Magical Realism, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASongofSixpence/pseuds/ASongofSixpence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, The Curious Case of Time Travel and Sherlock Holmes’ Kiss<br/><i>On the second Thursday of March, John Watson tumbled out of his bedroom window, and into the third Thursday of March.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson and the Door to Next Week

**Author's Note:**

> For Mimi, or, the-mamishka on tumblr. She’s super sweet and put this whole Secret Santa regift together and it was very cool of her. :) On the topic of this fic… we had about a week or so to complete our gift, and I pretty much just went, “putting it off till the last three days sounds like a super smart thing to do.” And so I did. I wrote this fic in three days, which is the fastest I’ve ever completed a fic…ever. It’s also the longest one shot I’ve ever written. Like John, I often felt like I was losing control of my life.  
> HOWEVER, NO REGRETS. Mimi said she liked AU stories, Johnlock, John getting seriously wounded protecting Sherlock and Sherlock getting hit up with emotions in turn, and SecretlyAwesome!John, and so I tried to combine all of those things, because, well, I like all of those things too.  
> I also tried to make the plot as convoluted as possible, as a challenge to myself, and it was not until half way through the fic that I realized that I should have just shot myself in the face, because that would have been easier.  
> Whatever, I REGRET NOTHING. I hope you all enjoy this really ridiculous fic, and keep in mind that it should not be taken seriously… at all.  
> Really.  
> Please.  
> 

On the second Thursday of March, John Watson tumbled out of his bedroom window, and into the third Thursday of March.

Before the incident, time travel as a whole was honestly never something the good doctor had given much thought to. He was man of science, yes, but of medicine, not physics and cosmology. (Or whatever it was that made up time travel, he wasn’t actually sure.) Besides, the last time time travel had helped cure bronchitis, or stop a wounded soldier from bleeding out was, well, never. So that settled that.

(In John’s defense he probably still knew a bit more on the subject than Sherlock ‘Didn’t Know the Earth Traveled Around the Sun’ Holmes, just through the rare episode of Doctor Who alone.)

Anyway, prior to his fall, his mind had not been on the possibility of time travel at all, but rather more characteristically focused on his best friend and flat mate, the aforementioned Sherlock Holmes. It had been a quiet day at 221B Baker St., and Sherlock, currently caseless and thus dreadfully intolerable, had started to do something repulsive with the jar of hands he kept in the fridge. The actual nature of the experiment concerned finger removal using commonplace household items and then observing the pattern in the flesh left behind, and the result was a bouquet of fingers scattered across their kitchen table. (“ _The kitchen table_ , Sherlock, where we _eat_.” Sherlock had ignored him, but a bone snapped threateningly, as if that had settled the matter.)

Sick to death of listening to Sherlock systematically hack away phalanges, and having finally run out of groceries to buy and things to clean, John returned to his room to retrieve his laptop and do some work on his blog. He already had an idea for the title of his newest entry; something like The Quickest Poison. No, that was too obtuse… perhaps he should mention a snake? The man had died from a snake bite after all…

He entered the room and automatically wrinkled his nose. Somehow the stale smell of death and formaldehyde was even stronger up on the second floor. He crossed to his window and raised the glass with a snap of his wrists. He was just about to grab his laptop and head back downstairs when something winked wryly at him in the pale mid-morning light. He turned back. Yes, there was something shiny dangling off a branch of the tree that grew past his bedroom window.

Curious, he peered at the object more closely. It looked like a piece of jewelry, probably a bracelet, though it was too obscured by foliage to really tell. How it had gotten up there was a mystery. If John were to guess then he’d say that a bird had tried to bring it up to its nest but had dropped it midair due to the weight. Well, it didn’t really matter how it had gotten there; he slid the screen up and carefully leaned out to grab it. Maybe, John thought, it belonged to Ms. Hudson. If it really had been a bird then it was doubtful it would have been able to carry it far, and from what he could see it looked a bit like something she would wear.

Infuriatingly enough it was just beyond his grasp, and so John hooked his knee up against the sill to get better leverage. It was uncomfortable- John wasn’t exactly flexible, and the window wasn’t exactly large, and so he flailed and brought his other knee up to the sill in an attempt to expedite the process. No such luck, but he suddenly became aware of just how very perilous his position was; the only thing keeping him upright was the force of his shoulders against the frame, and his right hand against the wall. He really hoped Sherlock was still absorbed in his experiment, because John had no idea how to explain the situation to him if he happened to walk in. It really was such a silly thing too, _“Attracted to something shiny, like I’m five!”_   John thought with exasperation. But it really would bother him if he just left it there- a piece of jewelry (because he was sure that was what it was now) dangling outside his window like a question mark. Maybe he could just try to knock it down with his cane or something. Yes, he’d do that, but after one more try-

He shifted all of his weight forward- a tragic miscalculation, Sherlock would have been ashamed- and though he realized his mistake a second later, by that point it was really much, much too late and so then he

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And landed on his bed.

He lay perfectly still for a second, holding his breath. After it became clear that he really was in his bed and not, well, dead, he exhaled slowly and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow.

Alright.

Alright.

No seriously, what the fuck.

His stomach flipped and he vaulted off his bed and into the adjoining bathroom just in time to heave violently into the toilet.  This done with, he hunched over to rest his head on the lip of the seat, searching his memory for some sort of sign that would explain why he was not currently lying in a hospital or, even more likely, a grave six feet underground. His memory loss could have possibly been attributed to the fact that he had, ostensibly, fallen out of a third story window, but it seemed strange that he had no injuries to speak of.

Certain the wave of nausea had passed, John stood up to look at himself in the mirror. He was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing when he fell…or didn’t fall.

Which made absolutely no sense.

Determined to shed some light on the subject, he went to go search for his phone, only to find it charging on his bedside table. He flipped it open, noting absently that someone had unplugged his alarm clock, and then rubbed roughly at his eyes and peered closer at the screen, gaping at the date blinking back at him.

March 15th, 2013.

Last time he’d checked it had been the 8th.

Which meant he was missing a week’s worth of memory.

He dropped his phone back on his bed, desperately trying to quell the rising dread in his gut, and made for the stairs. Surely Sherlock would be able to explain this- some of it at least.

The man in question was lounging on their couch in his blue silk robe, which he definitely hadn’t been wearing the last time John had seen him. He sat up when John reached the landing, blinking at him with the most confusion in his eyes John had ever seen him express. “I never heard you come home.” He said.

“What?”

Sherlock rose from the couch quickly, turning away from him. “I never thought you a coward John, but clearly I miscalculated. How was she then?”

John watched his flatmate pace across the living room, clearly agitated. “…Who?”

“Sarah.” The name itself was a snarl. “At least I assume that’s where you went. It could have been another one of your ex-girlfriends, how many do you have now?”

“What are you on about?”

“Sex,” Sherlock growled, rounding on him now, “Don’t play coy, it’s beneath you. What else could you have been doing for two days besides reassuring yourself that you’re straight or something equally ridiculous? So tell me John, have you made up your mind? Because I’ve made up mine and you’re a fool if you think I’ll let you leave.”

John put his hands up, trying to stop Sherlock from further crowding him against the doorway. His mouth twitched into a placating smile, the kind he gave patients just before calling security. Unnerved, he said, “Look, I don’t know what you’re-“ But then he couldn’t talk because Sherlock was crushing his mouth up against his.

Though violent, under any other circumstances such a kiss might have been pleasant. Hell, John had certainly been fantasizing about a similar scenario for quite some time, and yet-

He gave Sherlock a shove and the man stumbled backwards, “What the hell are you doing?” He barked, gaping.

Sherlock stared at him. In a flash his eyes went cold and composed. “I see. I apologize.” He whipped around and picked up the newspaper that was sitting on the coffee table and sat back down on the couch, clearly intent on reading it. John frowned after him, filled with the acute sense that he had just lost something important, even though he had no idea what it could be.

“Wait, Sherlock, I didn’t-“

“Lestrade called while you were gone.” Sherlock interrupted, speaking as if nothing peculiar had just transgressed between them. “They caught the priest. He spewed some drivel about the victims repenting for their sins, just as I had thought he would.” He shuffled the paper, “You really shouldn’t have removed your brace. I assume it hindered whatever you were doing with Sarah, but your wrist won’t heal properly if you don’t wear it.”

John looked at his wrists but just as he had observed earlier he had no injuries to speak of. “My wrists are fine.”  He said absently. He was clearly having some kind of psychotic break. Either that or Sherlock had taken to talking in riddles.

“Doctor knows best.” Sherlock said with a pointed indifference, and turned another page.

John bit his lower lip. Well, there was still the most pressing question. “Right, one more thing, what day is it?”

Sherlock finally turned to look him in the eyes again. He stared at him a long time, searching, before silently passing over the newspaper. John gave him a hesitant smile before looking at the top corner.

Thursday the 15th.

“Ta.” He handed the newspaper back to Sherlock, and began to back out into the hallway. “I’ll just… be upstairs then.”

Sherlock turned away from him. “Fine.”

He returned to his room and shut his door, and because he didn’t fancy having a panic attack he laid the out facts as he knew them. Either A) he was dreaming, because Sherlock had kissed him, and he couldn’t recall a time when that had happened when he was awake, or B) he was dead and this was Heaven. Or Hell. Or purgatory. He did not consider himself a particularly religious man, but in all of his speculating on an afterlife he had never predicted it might be so… whimsical.

There was also C) he really had smashed his head falling out of a window and that this was his brain humoring him as he breathed his last breath, bleeding out on the pavement.

None of these options seemed particularly attractive, and so John tried to put them out of his mind, looking around his room for some sort of explanation- a tell, some proof that this was or wasn’t reality.

His window was still open.

He crossed the room and stuck his head out. It was midmorning, around the same time of day it was when he had first fallen, but it was overcast, and the cool air nipped at the tips of his ears. It certainly felt very real, and if he strained his eyes he could still make out the glimmer of whatever had caught his attention in the first place. Okay then. He pulled his head back in.

If he was dreaming, (though even his nightmares had never felt so real as this did), and he killed himself, he would wake up. (Probably.) If this was the afterlife, and he killed himself, well, then no harm done. (Hopefully.) And if he was dying, and this was all a crazy fever dream, then the end was inevitable anyway. (Presumably.)

John heaved a breath. He flexed his hands. He counted to ten and then named all of the bones in the foot. He was certain of his sanity- it was the world that didn’t make sense. A world where Sherlock kissed him and his wrist was injured and they had apparently taken a case about a murderous priest.

It couldn’t be real, there was too much that was inexplicable. Real life never happened like dreams did- there was always cause and effect. It couldn’t be real. John could jump out that window and not die because what he was living was not reality. He hooked his knees over the edge of the windowsill.

The cement was gray and unforgiving below him. He ducked under the sill, hands splayed out on his bedroom wall. This was not real. His breath rattled in his chest. Rain began to speckle the pavement. He let go of the wall and tipped forward.

He body unfurled and he

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His bed squeaked under his weight.

He opened his eyes and sprung forward. He was in his bedroom, midmorning light filtering through his open window, and when he looked at his alarm clock, which was now plugged in, it read 10:23. His phone was sitting open on his desk, and when he pressed the power button it chimed once and then flickered off, dead. He cursed and grappled with the charger. As he sat, phone in hand, waiting for it to gain enough power to turn on and tell him what the date was, he heard Sherlock call his name as he rushed up the stairs.

He was unsure of what to brace himself for. Would Sherlock kiss him again? Yell at him? Ask him what had possessed him to jump out of a window? Just as he was considering feigning illness to avoid having to deal with him at all, Sherlock strode through his doorway, slinging his scarf around his neck. “Lestrade called. They’ve found another body with the same bruising pattern around the neck. They’ve already moved him to the morgue and brought Ward’s boyfriend back in for questioning. We’re going to Saint Bart’s, I’ve already called the cab.”

John blinked furiously, caught in a tidal wave of information that made no sense to him. “Um, yeah, I’ll be right down.” He said numbly.

Sherlock nodded curtly, mind already on other things, and whipped back around to leave, but John called him back. “Wait! Just one thing. Er, what day of the month is it?”

The look on Sherlock’s face was one of profound irritation. “Really, John, we don’t have time to-“

“Just humor me.”

He huffed a sigh, “Saturday the 10th.”

A wave of dismay crashed through John. He hadn’t made it back to the 8th then, though he did seem to have gone backwards. He wasn’t exactly sure what that was supposed to mean. “Thanks. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He gave his mobile’s power button one last half hearted push and then got up to find his shoes. On the way to Bart’s Sherlock told him about the body they had found; Brooks Gardener, a 61 year old male, had been found outside a strip club, though it was not the same one where they had found the first victim. His wife had called the police when he hadn’t showed up for dinner, but she had already been released from questioning because she had witnesses to back up her solid alibi. John did his best to smile and nod, though he had absolutely no idea what case this pertained to. Sherlock had mentioned “the first body”, and so John assumed it was a series of murders. (That he had no memory of hearing about.)

As he nodded along in time to Sherlock’s chattering, a new theory began to emerge in his mind. It was perhaps the most farfetched of them all, and yet the longer he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. After all, jumping from his window hadn’t killed him, (Or woken him up.) and the more he thought about it the less likely it seemed that this was something his brain could create with such precision.

And so, with that in mind, he scrapped his previous theories and brought up a new one, which was that D) falling through his window was spitting him out at a different day each time he did it.

Yeah, because that sounded _perfectly_ logical.

Sherlock had quieted down to a self-directed mumble by the time they got to the morgue, and when he pushed the doors open Molly looked up from where she was pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves. "Hello!" She said cheerily.

Sherlock brushed past her, “We’ll need to see the body of Brooks Gardener.”

John tried to give Molly a sympathetic smile, but she didn’t look at him, already trailing behind Sherlock, saying, “I know, Lestrade called ahead. I already have him all set up for you.”

“Perfect.” Sherlock whipped the sheet back and frowned at the body. John circled around the other side to see what was troubling him, but everything looked normal for a man Gardner’s age. The cause of death had clearly been asphyxiation- dark handprints on his neck stood out stark against the deathly blue pallor of his skin. “He’s too tall.” Sherlock snapped.

John looked up at him, bemused, “What, were you going to ask him to dance?”

Sherlock regarded him darkly and snatched the clipboard from Molly’s hands. “Oh, well, you aren’t actually allowed-“ She tried, but he was already reading it, speaking over her.

“It says here that Gardener is 1.88 m tall. We knew that the murderer was a fairly large man by his hand span, but you said yourself that he wouldn’t have been more than 1.82 m. Ward’s death would make sense, she was small and frail, but Gardener could have overpowered him- he’s fairly old, but he’d still be strong enough to fight off an attacker. And yet there aren’t signs of a struggle on either body. Why?” He tilted his head at John, a challenge in his eyes.

“They were drugged?” John offered.

Sherlock shook his head. At the same time Molly took the clipboard back from him and said, “The preliminary toxicology reports came back clean. There was nothing abnormal. Nothing we could detect, I mean.”

John sighed. Sherlock had clearly already come to the correct conclusion himself, and as much as he seemed to enjoy dragging John through his methods, John didn’t particularly enjoy being made an example of. “Then… it was someone they trusted. They wouldn’t have realized what was going on before it was too late.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock said, eyes gleaming. “But what would a 23 year old uni student from Dublin and a 61 year old school teacher have in common?” John said nothing, though he was pleased to finally know who Ward was, (he’d assumed she was the first victim but it was nice to know what he was supposed to be working with) and so Sherlock turned away from him, speculating loudly. “She’d never attended anywhere Gardener taught, Lestrade said so when he called, and it’s improbable that he’d ever have visited her school, so despite the common association it seems unlikely that they would have ever met the same person there, let alone someone they both would trust. No, more likely it would be someplace a variety of people visited- a support group, a place of worship.”

“So someone like a priest.” John said distractedly, thinking about what Sherlock himself had told him (if John was right in his theory, and it was looking more and more like he was)… 6 days in the future.

“Oh!” Sherlock spun around to grab John by the shoulders, “The flier in the first victims bag! She had fallen out of touch with the Catholic church and was looking for a way to get involved again. I’ll need to talk to Gardener’s wife, but-” His mobile rang, and he sprung away, flipping it open as he strode out into the hall, “Yes, hello?”

John followed him out, looking over his shoulder only as an after thought. “Uh, thanks.”

Molly looked up from where she was recovering the body and smiled tentatively, “It’s no problem- always happy to help.”

By the time he made it back out into the hallway Sherlock was already slipping his mobile back into his pocket, “Lestrade again. Ward’s boyfriend’s alibi checks out for the second murder, though I could have told them that. His hands were too small to be the killer’s.”

“So are we going to go talk to the second victim’s wife?” John asked, falling back into the rhythm of it. This, at least, was normal.

“No, not now. I need to get Ward’s information from the Yard, but I’ll need my laptop first.”

John flipped his collar up against the cold as they exited the building. It was starting to go overcast again. “So home then?”

“Home.” Sherlock affirmed, and stuck out his arm to hail a cab.

  
\- -- -

John stepped out of the bathroom, still damp from the shower, only to find the flat empty. “Sherlock?” He called, but there was no response. He rolled his eyes. He’d asked Sherlock to wait until he’d finished washing up, but it came as no surprise that he’d grown too impatient to do so. He changed into fresh clothes (there was no way of knowing how long he’d actually been wearing the last ones) and then turned on his mobile, which had finally finished charging.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Msg: _Where are you?_**

The reply came very quickly.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Msg: Re: Where are y…**

**_On my way to talk to Gardener’s wife._ **

John sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, eying his open window. He was devastatingly curious as to where he’d end up next. Should he even jump again? Yes, he decided automatically; stupid as it was, there was too much he didn’t know. How had they gotten the case in the first place? And how had that led up to him hurting his wrist? Besides, he still wasn’t sure if his theory was right, and as they say, third time’s the charm.

He had the distinct feeling that he was losing control of his life.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Msg: Re: On my wa…**

**_Do you need me?_ **

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Msg: Re: Do you nee…**

**_No._ **

John might have been stung if it hadn’t been the truth. Besides, he had more pressing things to attend to. Mysterious time traveling window first, murder second. He sent out one last message and then threw his phone on his bed, already moving for the window.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Msg: Re: No.**

**_Well try not to terrify the poor woman._ **

He shimmied his torso out the window so he could balance on the ledge. It had started to rain while he was in the shower and it speckled his face when he looked up. He laughed, if only because he felt like a kid again- taking such a stupid risk -but lord if it didn’t feel good. His hands weren’t shaking at all.

He jumped and

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After the third time doing it, it wasn’t actually too bad. John certainly didn’t feel nauseous afterwards anymore. The alarm clock read 10:23 again, and it was sunny outside, the same as it had been on the 8th, when he had first fallen. He looked around for his phone, but it was nowhere to be found. He grinned; he had left his phone downstairs with Sherlock on Thursday. Perhaps he had finally ended up back where he belonged.

He went down to the kitchen. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but there were clear signs of his presence in the flat. A couple of leftover fingers from Sherlock’s experiment lay abandoned on the table, and despite his previous irritation regarding their existence John found that he no longer minded. He unearthed his phone from where it was wedged in between the couch cushions, and clicked on the home screen.

His cheery mood flat lined. It was Friday the 9th. He’d only moved back a day. He shoved his mobile in his pocket.

Well, he was close enough, right? What was one day? He’d just start from here and forget the whole thing had ever-

A thought hit him so violently that his legs nearly fell out from under him. It was such an obvious but distressing thing that John couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it earlier.

“Fuck!” He said loudly.

He had just lived out Saturday the 10th. If he went to sleep on the 9th and woke up tomorrow, what would happen? Would he create a paradox? Would time be re-written? Worse yet, would jumping again today guarantee he wouldn’t end up in a day he’d already lived?

“Fuck!”

“John.”

John jumped, resisting the urge to deck his flatmate if only for sneaking up on a man with PTSD. “Sherlock! Could you… not?”

Sherlock didn’t apologize. He stared down at John with a maniacal gleam in his eyes. “We have a case!” He explained eagerly, “The Yard just called us in. A young woman has been found strangled to death next to a strip club even though she had no reason for being there, and they can’t find any DNA evidence of the perpetrator.” He grabbed his coat off the rack and headed down the stairs, calling. “Oh, it’s brilliant! Just what I needed.”

 _“Yes,”_ John thought glumly, pulling on his gloves and following him down, _“The problem is that I think I already know how it ends.”_

_\- -- -_

“Morning.” Lestrade said cheerfully, holding up the crime scene tape for them to duck under.

“Morning.” John groused, hanging back to talk to him as Sherlock surged ahead.

Lestrade gave him the once over, “You don’t look too good, mate.”

“Rough day. Days.”

“Anything specific?”

John waved his hand dismissively. He liked Lestrade, but he didn’t think that he would quite understand this one. Concerns about time travel didn’t exactly fit his job description. “Just Sherlock- being Sherlock.”

“Ah.” Lestrade said knowingly, and said flatmate called John’s name commandingly, the sound cutting across the crime scene so loudly that several officer’s heads swiveled around to see what the commotion was.

“Well, back to the grind.” John quirked his lips and Lestrade tipped an imaginary hat at him.

“John.” Sherlock called again, flapping his hand behind him and leaning over to inspect the body.

“Yes, I’m coming.”

“Anything you can tell me about the bruising?”

John got down on his knees to get a closer look at the victim’s neck. She looked very young and fragile, though yesterday Sherlock had said she was 23. Her auburn hair splayed halo-like behind her head, and her lips were parted to reveal straight white teeth. She clearly had been very pretty when she was alive, and John let himself feel a pang of remorse for a young girl killed early before thinking back to what Sherlock had said about the killer yesterday. (Or, technically, tomorrow.)

“It was clearly death by asphyxiation; He crushed her larynx. Judging by the bruising, it was a man with large hands. About 1.82 m tall.”

Sherlock nodded absently. “This wasn’t where she was killed. Even unconscious the body would never fall in a position so uniform. The killer could have at least attempted to make it look haphazard, but they didn’t. So it’s a message. Why a strip club? She was a photographer.” He gestured to her hands for John’s benefit, muttering, “Callouses. Why kill a photographer? She took a picture of something she shouldn’t have?”

“We have a positive ID.” Lestrade interrupted, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Meagan Ward, 23, raised in Dublin, but no living relatives. She was a uni student, living with her boyfriend. We just took him in for questioning. Do you have anything?”

Sherlock stood smoothly, “Yes, but I’ll need to see the boyfriend first.”

“He’s in police custody.” Lestrade said, clearly conflicted. “I don’t know if I can get you-“

Sherlock scowled and loomed closer to him. “You _can_ , and you will. You need me.”

Clearly not pleased about being bullied, Lestrade stood up straighter and met Sherlock’s eyes. After a moment of heated staring he deflated with a sigh of resignation. “Fine, get in the car.”

John straightened from his crouch, but did not move to follow. Sherlock made it halfway to the car before he realized he was alone, and when he did he turned back to looked at John expectantly. “I’m not going.” John explained, “I promised I’d meet a couple of my old army mates tonight.” Sherlock’s nose wrinkled as he regarded him suspiciously. (Admittedly, John was a terrible liar.) He went on, “So I probably won’t be home until late. It’s fine, you won’t need me for this.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, and John had just begun to resign himself to sitting through a pointless interrogation (he knew for a fact it wasn’t the boyfriend, Sherlock would say it himself tomorrow...yesterday. Whatever.) when Sherlock finally nodded, “Fine.” And then strode away with a flap of his coat.

He hailed a cab and took it back to Baker St., only pausing for a second to remove his coat at the door before making a beeline for his room.

He flipped his mobile open, checking to see if Sherlock had called him for whatever reason, before placing it on his bedside table, too impatient to bother plugging it back in.

He was tired of time travel, he decided. He would be very happy once he had made it past the 15th. The 15th was the farthest in the future he had lived, and so (he hoped) once he made it past that date, he would be able to start over again and pretend the last few days had never happened.

For a brief moment he imagined what would happened if he never reached the 15th, forced to live and relive his days indefinitely until he went mad. With that grisly image in his mind, he slid out onto the windowsill, allowed himself a brief moment to hope, and then

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There was a lump sticking into his back. For a second, John worried that something had gone horribly wrong, and that he had injured himself, but he rolled over and discovered that he was just lying on his mobile. He picked it up and flipped it open.

Sunday the 11th.

With a muffled groan of dismay he rolled over, and with the distinct knowledge that he hadn’t technically slept in four days, he made the executive decision to take a nap fully clothed.

By the time he woke up and showered and changed into fresh clothes it was 4:46 in the afternoon. Sherlock was typing rapidly on John’s laptop when he joined him downstairs, but he did not seem to have noticed that John had slept most of the day away.

“Any news?” John asked, getting out the kettle. He assumed that since it was the 11th, he was technically caught up with everything he was supposed to know. “Did you find out everything you needed from the wife?” He added as an after thought.

“Yes, the first and second victims both attended the same church, the boyfriend confirmed it. You may not have noticed, but there was faint bruising on the knees of both victims. Now, what do Catholics do that requires kneeling?” The last word was drawled out suggestively.

“Confessional?” The kettle beeped, and John went to go find a mug.

“Precisely! It’s all very simple actually; even the Yard could have figured this one out in a matter of time. The fact that both bodies were left at strip clubs- a message, and a rather obvious one- infidelity. So, both victims went to confessional, admitted, presumably, that they were being unfaithful to their partners, and some zealous priest decided that they should have to atone for sins with their lives. Elementary.”

The tea smelled lovely, and John blew the steam away before sitting across from Sherlock and taking a sip. “And you’re sure that they were cheating? That seems like a big leap to make just because of where the bodies were left.”

Sherlock gave him an incredibly dark look over the top of the laptop screen. “I’m hardly _speculating_ , John.” He said the word ‘speculating’ the same way a women might say the word ‘mother-in-law’. “I looked around Gardener’s flat when I went to go talk to his wife. There were signs everywhere- receipts from restaurants that his wife said they never attended, with enough for food ordered for two, and plenty besides. Both the wife and the boyfriend went as far as to say that there were times when the victims disappeared for hours on end, and they never had any excuses for where they were. Honestly, it’s not as if they were elegant about it.”

John rolled his eyes, “Oh well they’ve got what was coming to them now, haven’t they? For not cheating _elegantly_ enough for Sherlock Holmes.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Fine, are you going to call the Yard and tell them what you know, then?”

“What? No, of course not.” Sherlock closed the laptop with a deft snap of his wrist and stood quickly. “Finish your tea and get your gun, John.” His mouth had a wicked tilt to it. “We’re going to church.”

\- -- -

“So, what? We sit back here and wait until someone who’s tall enough walks by?”

Sherlock ignored him, and John shifted in a futile attempt to make the pew a bit more comfortable to sit on. (to no avail.) The church was an old, regal looking thing- small and narrow, but with tall stained glass windows. They were currently both tucked into the farthest pew in the back, ensconced in shadows, and as far as John could tell they were the only one’s there. He elbowed Sherlock lightly, “I’m just saying we don’t have a lot to go on.”

“Of course we do.” Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the door across the church, the one that led to the rooms in the back. The one he had been watching since they arrived.

John frowned at him. The pale light filtering though the high windows gave Sherlock's silhouette an otherworldly glow. “We do?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what then?”

Sherlock huffed and shifted in his seat, as if he was irritated that John would not let him remain wrapped in his air of suspense. “I know what the murderer looks like.”

“What? How?”

“I saw a picture.” Sherlock said moodily. “There was a picture of Gardener and his wife with a priest taped to their fridge. I asked about it and she said that they were close friends. If there was a man he trusted, it would have been him.”

“And… how do you know he’ll be here now?” John checked his mobile. It was 6:14. “It’s a bit late, isn’t it?”

“I called ahead.” It was morphing into a full-blown sulk now. “I called ahead and gave a name and they said that he would be here at 8 for those who wanted to participate in late night prayer.”

John looked at him incredulously. “Are you telling me that we’ve just made a date with a murderer?”

“You love it.” Sherlock muttered peevishly, and John covered his laugh with his sleeve.

They spent the rest of the time in silence, John dozing half-heartedly while the stiff wooden pew made knots in his back. Hunger began to gnaw at him in earnest by 7:00, and the meal he had lost when he first time-traveled seemed more and more tragic. It occurred to him that he hadn’t had anything but tea since last Thursday. How long ago that actually was, however, was a mystery. It was impossible to tell with all the jumping about.

He was about to suggest to Sherlock that he take a break and come back later when Sherlock sat up very straight and hissed. “He’s here.”

The man was, just as first Sherlock and then John had predicted, tall, but not overly so. He was graying around the ears, but was otherwise dark headed and handsome, looking around 50 or so, his dark suit and clerical collar sitting staunched and neat. John sat up slowly, watching the priest as he busied himself with something behind the pew. “Are we going to talk to him?” He murmured.

Sherlock nodded, and then, before John could lie out a plan of action, launched himself from the pew, shouting, “Freeze!”

“Sherlock!” John cried in exasperation, throwing himself forward as the priest got a good look at them both, and then drew something dark and shiny from the folds of his suit. John felt all of the blood drain from his face. “Sherlock!”

There was an explosion of noise as the priest leveled the gun and pulled the trigger. John leapt at Sherlock, grabbing him from behind and throwing him to the ground. He felt his head snap back as he hit something face first, and then there was a flash of pain and warmth. He had time to think, _“Why would a priest have a gun?”_ And then it was dark and he didn’t think anything at all.

\- -- -

“John!”

His headed ached something fierce. It was a cross between getting shot and getting stabbed in the face with pliers. John had once gotten beat up by a group of 5th years when he was young, and he had woken up feeling a little bit like this; like there were a crowd of midgets jumping on his head.

“ _John_!”

Someone was shaking his shoulders violently. John opened his eyes and then closed them again because Sherlock’s face was upside down. “I don’t know who told you you should shake concussed people, but they were very wrong.”

He felt the ground tremble. It was really very warm, for stone. “I’m sorry.”

He opened he eyes again. It occurred to him that Sherlock’s face was not actually upside down, and that he was not lying on the floor. His head was pillowed against Sherlock’s lap and his legs were propped up on a pew. (Sherlock had done that right at least.) Something soft was touching his hair. “You’re petting my head.” He said.

“I’m not.” Sherlock said crossly.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

John frowned. “What happened?”

Sherlock got very quiet. He exhaled softly. “You stopped breathing.”

“I hit my head?”

“On the corner of the pew. And then the floor.”

“That would account for the midgets.” John sighed good-naturedly, but Sherlock did not seem to be amused. “Am I bleeding?” He reached up to touch his head but then froze midway there, hissing as his wrist twinged. It was a lumpy purple and blue color, and it was starting to swell. “Oh, my wrist.” He said faintly, and then the thought reverberated back and dislodged a memory, and so he said it again. “ _Oh_ , my wrist.”

“You landed on it.”

John made a vaguely affirmative sound and then tilted his head back to look Sherlock in the eyes. Sherlock adjusted how he was holding his scarf against the gash in John’s head. “You let the priest get away.”

Sherlock gazed at him, face unreadable. “You stopped breathing.”

 _“I’m sorry for scaring you.”_ He thought, but didn’t dare say it out loud. Instead he asked, “Did you call the Yard?”

“They should be in pursuit of Father Collins now.”

“Who?”

“The priest.”

“Right.” Sherlock pressed harder at John’s wound and he went a bit light-headed. “But- ow, Christ- how do they know where he’s going?”

“Oh.” Sherlock smirked. “Didn’t I mention that I got his address from Gardener? She was very willing once she learned that he was a suspect.”

John gaped at him, “You’re joking. Why are we here then?” Sherlock’s smile only grew, and John laughed. “You’re mad- absolutely mad.”

The sound of sirens swelled between them.

Upon the arrival of the ambulance, John found himself passed from the paramedic, who informed him that he had a minor concussion and a sprained wrist (which he had already figured out for himself, thanks.) to the ambulance itself, (“We can take a cab, it’s _fine_.”) where he and Sherlock sat hunched over and petulant while a group of 20 year old paramedics tried to make small talk with them. They were then forced to sit in the A &E for an hour and a half next to a man who had a river of blood dripping from his broken nose and on to his lap, and a woman holding a crying, colicky baby. Sherlock was twitchy and anxious and kept leaning into John’s personal space to make sure he was holding enough pressure on his head and John absolutely would not let himself yell at him even though he hadn’t slept properly in god knew how long and he felt faintly nauseous from hunger and pain and he was “fine, Sherlock. Yes, _fine_.”

When the doctor finally called him in to get his wrist x-rayed the nurse informed Sherlock that since he wasn’t family he wouldn't be allowed in. “Just go home.” John pleaded, and Sherlock scowled at him, fuming and caustic. “I’ll take a cab back. I’ll meet you there.”

The doctor prodded at his wrist, sent for the x-rays, gave them a once over, and then gave him a fabric brace and a prescription for some painkillers. It was clearly a busy night at the A&E, and so John tried not to take it personally (he knew what the doctor was going through from experience.) but he couldn’t shake the prickly feeling he got from being handed off so quickly, especially after waiting for so long.

Sherlock was still hovering by the doors when John exited, and he sighed. “Come on,” he said, feeling as if he was too big for his skin, “we can pick up the painkillers in the morning. Let’s just go home.”

\- -- -

Despite the bone deep exhaustion he felt, he could find no peace in sleep. He considered jumping again, but the thought alone filled him with an inexplicable revulsion. Even the cool darkness of his room could not comfort him. He glowered at his alarm clock- the light, no matter how meager, made his head pound. It was 3:00 in the morning.

He rolled over and Sherlock was standing in his doorway.

“Jesus- _fuck_! Sherlock- _what_?” Sherlock moved to sit on his bed, but said nothing. John tried rubbing at his eyes with his bad hand, cursed again, and tried with the other one. “Are you okay? Do you need something?”

Still, he said nothing. John sighed, “Well you could at least unplug my alarm clock while you’re being creepy.”

The dark silhouette leaned over and there was a brief spark as he tugged it from the wall, then nothing. “Are you okay?” John repeated.

There was a momentary rustling as Sherlock shifted, and John thought that he might have been ignored again, but then Sherlock said, just loud enough to be heard, “You stopped breathing.”

John smiled into the darkness. He rolled back over onto his side, making sure he didn’t lie on his arm. “Well lay down then, I can’t very well sleep with you sitting there.”

Sherlock shimmied under his covers, and John fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of his breathing.

\- -- -

Sherlock was gone when John woke up, and he considered his open window for a moment. He could jump now, but, oh, hell, what was the point? He had time for breakfast. Besides, he wanted to know whether the priest had been caught.

Sherlock was not in the living room when John came down. He stood in the kitchen for a second, listening, before he heard the sound of Sherlock’s shower running. He busied himself making toast, eager to finally get something in his stomach, which was why he didn’t hear the shower turn off, and why he didn’t hear Sherlock walk into the kitchen from his bedroom.

“John.”

John turned, a jar of jam teetering precariously from where it was pinned between his thigh and the kitchen counter as he tried to open it one handed. “Oh, good morning. Have you heard anything from Lestrade about Father Collins?”

The look on Sherlock’s face was peculiar- the only way John could think to explain it was a kind of desperation. Water dripped off his still damp curls, but he didn’t seem to notice. He walked towards John like a man possessed. “I was worried.” He said. “You stopped breathing and I thought you were dead. I couldn’t think straight, John, me.” He leaned into John’s personal space, pinning him against the counter, and the jam jar slipped and cracked on the linolium floor. His eyes raked over John’s face like a man starved. “Do you understand what that means?”

“Um, Sherlock, I-.” He was gripped with a profound sense of déjà vu. Sherlock was very, very close to him, and John’s tongue flicked out to dampen his lips. “Uh…” He breathed.

“I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want you to leave.” He growled. He seemed frustrated with his apparent inability to articulate what he meant. He gripped John’s forearms. “Do you _understand_?”

“I-.” John laughed, dazed. “Yes, I understand. Now kiss me you mad bastard.”

It was different the second time, because it should have been the first. It was the first for Sherlock, and it should have been for John, but-

A thought hit him, and oh, _oh_ it shouldn’t have made sense but it did.

“Wait.” John said, pushing Sherlock away.

Sherlock had been angry with John the first time he jumped because he said he’d been gone for two days. Sherlock had acted as if something personal had transgressed between them before he left. (Well, he had kissed him, and then had been very offended when John had not reciprocated, so.) So, if John jumped today, he would presumably bypass the 13th and the 14th, (because Sherlock said he was not there then, and he’d already visited every other day of the week) and would end up someday after the 15th, where he could then stop time traveling and be done with it all.

“I have to go.” Sherlock’s expression automatically closed off, and John winced, though he knew his anger was inevitable. (It was fine; he had already had to deal with it.) “I know. Just- you’re going to be very angry with me, but then it’ll all be fine. I’ll stop acting so strangely and I’ll stop asking you what day it is. Well, probably, I don’t remember if I do or not. But then it’ll be fine.”

Sherlock stared blankly at him, but John didn’t feel like wasting more time. “Sorry, I know I’m a complete arsehole.” He said, and then pushed past him, pounding up the stairs.

He didn’t bother hesitating. He swung his leg over the sill, hoped a little hope, prayed a little prayer, and then jumped and

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He rolled off his bed. His alarm clock was still unplugged. He looked around for his mobile, scouring his bed sheets and then the trousers he had worn Monday the 12th, where he found it in his left pocket. He flipped it open. It was Friday the 16th. Finally.

He hurried down the stairs, calling, “Sherlock,” as he went. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, reading an unmarked file, and when he saw John he nodded stiffly and then stood as if to leave. “No, wait.” John rushed toward him, wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, and pulled his mouth to his.

Sherlock tried to pull away, fisted his hands in John’s shirt to pull him closer, and then tried to pull away again. His eyes were glazed, but vaguely angry, clearly torn between his remembered irritation with John and his obvious desire to keep him there.  “You-.”

“Yes, right, shut up.” John said, pushing him backwards, because he had already fucked up kissing Sherlock the first two times and he really wanted to make this one count.

“You-.”

He jerked his head back and gasped a breath. “I told you I was going to be a moron and I was.”

“We have,” John kissed him again. “uh,” He tried not to be too pleased that he had driven _Sherlock Holmes_ to stuttering, but he really couldn’t help it. “a case.”

“Does that matter?”

“No.” Sherlock said breathlessly, and John laughed.

“Right, then.” And he pressed forward and Sherlock was there to cushion him as they

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**End.**


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